About Me

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Okay, so I'm not a patient guy. I can't wait until my next romance, Dinner at Fiorello's, releases on May 1 from Dreamspinner Press. To give you a little taste of what's coming, you can now read the first chapter. Intrigued? Click on the links to preorder now.

Henry Appleby stared at the Craigslist ad on his iMac screen.
No, it was not in the Men Seeking Men or the Casual Encounters section. Henry
had perused those ads, but at eighteen years old, he found most of those ads
were more for education, titillation, and fantasy. He couldn’t imagine the guys
who posted them, nor could he picture the brave souls who had the courage to
respond. Still, they showed Henry a part of the world he was curious about,
even if he was not ready to take such a seedy plunge, if he ever would be.

No, the ad that had caught Henry’s eye was in the Jobs
section. More specifically, it was in the “food/bev/hosp” subsection. It read:

General Kitchen Help Wanted

Fiorello’s, Rogers Park Fine Italian Dining
destination, is looking for general front-end and back-end help. You’ll do
everything from wash dishes and bus tables to food prep. Pay is minimum wage,
but it’s a great way to learn the food industry from the ground up. High school
graduate or GED required; past restaurant work desirable but not necessary.
Please call in person at the restaurant between the hours of 10:00 a.m. to 1:00
p.m., Monday through Friday. No phone calls, e-mails, or postal inquiries,
please.

Henry had been staring at the ad for more than fifteen
minutes. The only break had been the few minutes he took to leave Craigslist to
Google Fiorello’s and locate their address on Jarvis Avenue. Even though Henry
lived in Evanston, only a short drive away from Rogers Park, Chicago’s farthest-north
lakefront neighborhood, he had never been by the place.

Henry’s father, Theodore, but known to everyone else as
“Tank,” startled Henry out of his reverie. Henry jumped a little as his father
swept into the room without warning.

“You looking at porn sites again? Damn, to be young!” His
booming voice intruded on the sunny early June morning.

Henry quickly shifted the Google tab on his computer to the
website for NYU and turned to give what he knew was a sheepish grin to his
strapping father. Even though he had been doing nothing close to what his dad
had suggested, heat still rose to Henry’s cheeks. “What? No, no, of course
not.”

His father, already dressed in his Ermenegildo Zegna suit,
crisp white shirt, and rep tie, whacked him playfully on the back of the head.
“Lighten up, kid. I was just kidding.” He laughed. “And if you’re lookin’ at a
little T&A, who am I to complain? You’re a red-blooded American male, just
like your dad.”

Henry could only keep grinning stupidly. Porn would have been
one thing. His father would have accepted, maybe even welcomed, his son looking
at the ubiquitous one-handed art so prevalent on the Web, but he would have had
a shit fit if he had known his son was getting excited over a employment ad for
kitchen help.

Now there was horror. Kitchen help was not appropriate. Not in the Appleby family.

His father moved back toward the entrance to Henry’s room.
“That summer help position at my law firm is still waiting for you. I told the
partners you could start next week. You okay with that?”

Henry still could not find a single word to say. He knew his
father wasn’t really asking if he was okay with it; he was simply reminding
Henry of his obligation. Henry scratched his blond hair as if fleas had
suddenly invaded it. He kept grinning and wondered if he resembled a chimp. He
nodded weakly. “Sure, Dad,” he finally managed to utter. In a bold move for
Henry, he added, “I’m just considering all my options for the summer. You know,
last time to be free and all that.”

“What options?” his father asked in a chiding voice. “You’re
prelaw at NYU this fall, right? What could be better than working for one of
the best investment law firms in Chicago? That’s some solid résumé shit, son.”

“You’re right, Dad.” Henry said the words but experienced a
sinking sensation, as one does when one speaks something that comes from the
head but not the heart.

“Well, enjoy the life of Riley for a few more days. I don’t
blame you. They’re gonna work you to the bone down there, but you’ll learn a
lot.”

“Sounds great,” Henry said without much conviction. He let
his gaze roam back to his iMac screen, staring at the Craigslist tab. Could he
dare?

“See you later, kiddo. The early bird and all that. And by
the way, what the hell are you doing up at 7:00 a.m.?”

“I don’t know, Dad. I was awake.”

“And decided to go online before anything else. You kids.
Typical.” Tank ran his fingers playfully through his son’s mop of hair. “We’ll
need to get this cut before Monday. Go see Giovanni,” he said, referring to his
barber on Main Street.

Henry’s shoulders relaxed, and he let out a long breath as
his father exited the room. He got up and crept to his bedroom door, watching
as Tank descended the winding staircase. His father paused to pick up his metal
briefcase from its place in the foyer, slipped the Wall Street Journal under his arm, and then headed outside.

The sound of the Lexus starting up in the drive let Henry
know it was safe to go back in his room and return to Craigslist, where he
could ponder such an outrageous position as “General Kitchen Help.”

In the kitchen, their housekeeper, Maxine, was making herself
some breakfast. Henry paused to watch the woman who’d been a part of the
Applebys’ daily life since he was a little boy. She was what his mother would
call “pleasingly plump,” with broad shoulders—like a linebacker, his dad
joked—and even wider hips. She didn’t wear a uniform but always came to work
dressed the same: black polyester slacks and a polyblend loose-fitting top,
usually floral-patterned. Her hair, once a startling shade of red, had dulled
over the years and was now shot through with gray. Still, it was a riot of
curls, and Henry thought that a few extra pounds or gray hairs could not
diminish the vibrant beauty he saw in their housekeeper.

He watched as she cracked eggs one-handed into a bowl,
whisked them, then added a few torn basil leaves, some grated cheese, and a
handful of cherry tomatoes, cut in half. She poured the egg mixture into a pan
Henry knew would be coated with a thick layer of melted butter.

“I know you’re watchin’ me, kid. That’s why I made enough for
two.”

Maxine turned and bestowed upon him one of her trademark
grins. The gap in her front teeth made her look impish. The one thing that
never aged about Maxine was her smile. It had the ability to illuminate a room
and made Henry feel warm all over, loved. The smile he gave in return bore no
relation, he thought, to the sheepish grin he must have given his father
moments ago.

“Thanks, Maxine. You have to show me how you do that
sometime.”

“This? This is nothin’. Tomorrow you can cook for us. Just
don’t let Mr. Appleby see.” She laughed.

It was like a donkey’s bray, and Henry giggled, a little boy
again. But she was right. His father would have ridiculed him, at best, if he
saw his son cooking in the kitchen. Cooking was work for the help when they
were at home or for kitchen staff when they went out to a restaurant or to
their country club.

Maxine finished up with the eggs in short order, jerking the
frying pan rapidly toward her over and over until, like magic, a perfectly rolled
omelet appeared. She pulled down a couple of plates from the cabinet, loaded
them up, and handed one to Henry. They sat on stools at the kitchen’s
marble-topped island to eat. “You want some toast with that?” Maxine asked
after a while. “Just take me a minute. I got sourdough.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Henry went back to eating. Maxine had been
with the family since Henry was eight years old and was kind of like a mother.
Unlike his own mom, though, this was a woman with whom he could talk and share
secrets, knowing she would never pass judgment.

“You’re kinda tight-lipped this morning,” Maxine said once
they’d finished their amazing eggs. They were soft, buttery, and silky, unlike
any other Henry had ever had. There was something delicate about their texture,
yet the taste was a melding of layers: sweet herb, acidic tomato, salty
Parmigiano-Reggiano. Henry swore Maxine threw a little handful of magic into
everything she cooked.

“Just thinking about all I have to do today.”

“Right.” Maxine covered her mouth as she belched. “What’s on your agenda? Wait. Don’t tell me. The
beach with Kade? A bike ride along the Green Bay Trail? Maybe head out to Old
Orchard, charge up your dad’s Visa at Nordstrom?” She winked. “Get somethin’
for me. I could use a new pair of shoes. Size ten. Kitten heels. I like red.”
She giggled.

At the mention of Kade, Henry’s thoughts went dark. He hadn’t
spoken to his best friend since the night of Henry’s graduation party ten days
ago—but who was counting? What had happened between them on the beach after all
the guests left was something Henry had been at first gleeful about, but as
time wore on with no calls, texts, or e-mails from Kade, Henry had begun to
worry he had pushed things too far and maybe lost his best friend. Yet he could
still recall the satiny feel of Kade’s skin against his own, the seawater-sweet
taste of his come.

Had it been worth it? If he had lost a buddy he’d had since
boyhood, no. But he couldn’t help but savor the memory of that night, a fantasy
he had never thought would come true.

Maxine nudged him, knocking her shoulder into Henry’s. “You
mind putting the dishes in the dishwasher? Your mother wants me to clean floors
today, and the marble ones are a chore—especially with only bein’ allowed to
use vinegar and a little water.”

Henry turned to see his mother enter the kitchen. As always,
when he saw her he was confounded by his perception and mix of feelings. For
one, Megan Appleby was beautiful. She was only in her early forties but looked
closer to someone in her thirties, maybe even twenties if the light was right.
Her blonde hair was like silk, hanging to her shoulders, fashionably cut and
woven in with strands of gold, brown, and platinum that looked perfectly
natural but cost well over a hundred bucks every time she visited her
“colorist” in Winnetka. Her face was very much like her only son’s: full lips,
startling blue eyes, and a nose that was slightly too long but gave her an aura
of aristocracy. Both she and Henry had fine bone structure, strong, but where
Henry’s was chiseled, his mother’s was more delicate. Her skin was, to labor a
cliché, like porcelain. That was as it should be too—Megan spent a lot of money
on not only expensive toners and lotions, but saw a doctor, also in Winnetka,
for regular Botox injections.

Today she wore a form-fitting floral dress that seemed too
formal for a hot summer day. Henry wasn’t sure if his mother even owned a pair
of jeans.

In spite of her head-turning beauty, there was something cold
about his mom, something that kept people at a distance. Like right now. What
need was there to talk to Maxine that way? Maxine was like family. He hated to
see the way Maxine stiffened at the sound of his mother’s voice.

Henry moved away from the table, hands up, knowing it
wouldn’t be prudent to grab the dishes from the island anyway.

“Sure thing, Mrs. A.” Maxine busied herself running the
dishes under the tap and loading them into the dishwasher. Henry couldn’t see
her face, but if he could, he was certain she’d be rolling her eyes.

Megan walked over to Henry and gave him a kiss he barely felt
on his cheek. She smelled subtly of lavender and money.

Maxine closed the dishwasher. “You want anything for
breakfast, Mrs. A? I can make you some eggs or pancakes.”

Pancakes! Henry wanted to bust a gut at that one. He knew
Maxine was making fun of his mom without her even knowing it. Pancakes would no
more pass Megan Appleby’s lips than a cup of hemlock.

“Thank you, Maxine. I’ll just have a cup of green tea, if you
wouldn’t mind putting the kettle on.”

“And a carrot?” Henry couldn’t resist asking.

Mom wagged a finger at him. “Henry,” she chided. “You know
I’m trying to shed a few pounds. It’s beach season, after all.”

Henry thought if his mother succeeded in shedding a few
pounds, she would waste away to a skeleton, but he kept his own counsel.

Megan sat down at the island and fingered the pieces of
fruit—pineapple, bananas, mangos, and kiwis—before drawing her hand away from
them as though they were something distasteful.

“Have one, Mom. It won’t kill you. That’s healthy stuff.”

“It’s all sugar,” she said softly.

Getting his mother to eat was mostly a lost cause. Somehow
she managed to subsist on green tea and rice cakes, with the occasional stalk
of celery if she was feeling wild.

Henry started out. “Well, I think I’m gonna head back up to my
room. See what I can get up to today.”

“Yes. That’s a good idea. Enjoy your free time while you have
it. Your father wants you at the firm bright and early Monday morning.”

If Henry had any guts at all, he might have said to his
mother, “Well, that may be what he
wants, but what about what I want?”
But all he said was, “Right.” He hurried from the room with the sound of
Megan’s musical voice instructing Maxine to use only vinegar and water on the
windows. Windex was toxic, she said.

In his room, Henry debated: what to do with his day, what to
do with his life, what to do about his summer employment. He lay down on his
bed and pulled the sheet over himself.

There was a thrumming in his veins even as he lay on his
back. He didn’t know if the surge was due to dread or excitement.

First, there was dread. He could do what every North Shore
kid was probably doing today—this glorious early summer (technically still
spring) day when the rigors of school were but a memory—head out the beach.
Bake in the sun. Dip his toes in the frigid waters of Lake Michigan. Maybe he’d
run into Kade there. Maybe they could talk, clear the air.

Maybe not. The thought filled him with both longing and
trepidation.

Sure, he could spend the day leisurely working on his tan or
wandering Old Orchard, the outdoor mall in Skokie, or just go out in his
family’s backyard, which faced Lake Michigan, and plop down in one of the
Adirondack chairs out there and read all day. He was in the middle of David
Sedaris’s latest, and that guy always cracked him up.

Henry recognized all these things for what they
were—distractions. He made a list of things he didn’t want to think about.

The first was getting on the train Monday morning with his
father, wearing a Brooks Brothers button-down shirt, khakis, and sensible
shoes, looking like the little junior attorney his father was expecting him to
be.

The second was talking to Kade. He and his best friend had
gone skinny-dipping in the freezing waters of Lake Michigan after Henry’s
graduation party. They had emerged near the boulders bordering the beach, and,
in a bit of a tipsy state, Kade had remarked that neither of them seemed to be
suffering the effects of “shrinkage” from the frigid waters. One thing led to
another, as they say, and Henry had ended up somewhere he had always dreamed of
being, on his knees between Kade’s spread thighs. At the time, Henry thought
the act might bring their friendship to a new and more intimate level, but the
radio silence that followed their brief tryst had proved otherwise. Still, he
needed to make things right with Kade, show him he wasn’t a threat and they
could go back to where they were before.

But could they? Could anyone after they’d been intimate?
Henry was too inexperienced to know, and he certainly had no one to ask.

Not going to Fiorello’s and applying for a job he thought he
would love was third on the list of things Henry didn’t want to think about.
Sure, the work would be hard, he imagined, and sweaty. It would be tedious.
He’d be treated like the underling he knew he’d be. But he would be around food
and cooking all day, things he was passionate about. In his wildest fantasies,
he imagined being a chef, somebody like Grant Achatz or Rick Bayless or even
someone as big as Thomas Keller. He was already, with Maxine, honing his knife
skills, learning the difference between a dice, a mince, and a julienne.

When Henry dreamed, he dreamed about food.

Not once had he ever dreamed about investment law.

Henry knew spending the day doing what other rich North Shore
kids do would only take him away from pursuing his dream.

But that dream went against the core of what his family
wanted for him. He’d always been the golden boy, doing exactly what his family
expected. He felt like no one really knew him, knew his passion for food, for
cooking (well, except for maybe Maxine).

As people often do when faced with life-altering decisions or
yielding to temptations that may or may not be the right thing to do, Henry
tried bargaining in baby steps for what he would do with the day.

I’ll just hop on the ‘L’
and go down there, check the place out. Maybe I’ll even have lunch. And if I
like what I see, maybe I could ask for an application and fill it out. Odds
are, they won’t even call me. I don’t have any real-world experience. They’ll
probably have lots of other people with years under their belts lining up for
that job, even though it sounds like grunt work, entry level, or bottom of the barrel,
depending on your point of view.

So why do I want it
so, so much?

Never mind. Just go
there. See what it’s like. You may not even want to apply once you see it.

Henry got up from his bed, stripped out of his plaid boxers
and T-shirt, and headed for the shower in his bath. He had to admit to himself
that there was a certain relief in thinking that, by going to the place, he
would see it for the dismal work environment it was and would come home with
more enthusiasm for working downtown at his father’s law firm.

Part of him even wished for that outcome.

Life would be so much easier.

He switched the shower on and waited for it to get hot. Once
the temperature was as he liked it, he slid under the showerhead and turned
under it. He closed his eyes, trying just to let himself relax and not think.

But one thought stayed with him—it won’t hurt just to go see. No one has to know.

Back in his room, Henry debated what to wear. He knew his
father recommended a suit and tie for any interview situation. But Henry didn’t
even know if there would be an interview. If he even wanted to fill out an
application, all he might be faced with would be filling in the blanks.

His mother always said, “I never apologize for being
overdressed.”

Yet Henry didn’t want to walk into the place looking like
some privileged, private school, North Shore teenager—which he was. That could
be off-putting, especially since he was imagining Fiorello’s as a small family
restaurant. Otherwise, why would they be looking for a jack-of-all-trades kind
of kitchen person?

In the end, he thought he couldn’t go wrong with a pair of
soft gray jeans and a pink button-down shirt, tucked in. He’d wear his Cole
Haan black monk strap shoes. They were comfy and not too dressy, he thought.
All in all, he thought he’d look neat and not trying too hard.

Besides, the pink of the shirt set off his skin, blue eyes,
and blond hair in a very fetching way. Dressed, he turned in front of the
mirror and thought he didn’t look too bad, not too bad at all.

Now his only challenge would be getting out of the house
unnoticed by either his mother or Maxine. Both women would be immediately
suspicious if he left the house in anything other than board shorts and a tank
top.

That’s why we have a
back staircase to the kitchen, he told himself,
creeping down its carpeted length. Besides,
if I run into Maxine, I can confide in her if I need to. She’d understand. Mom,
not so much.

As if to allay his worries, he heard the sound of his
mother’s Mercedes two-seater convertible start up. He hurried over to his
window to see her pulling out of the driveway onto Michigan Avenue.

It’s meant to be, Henry thought.

The kitchen was empty. Maxine
must be in the foyer, scrubbing the floor.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

GIVEAWAY
I have four copies to give away to four lucky winners.
To win your copy, go to the Third EyeAmazon page, listen to the sample, and answer the following questions:

1. Who cries out to Cayce in his hospital dream?

2. What was the name of the first nurse to come to Cayce, the one he remembered from high school?

E-mail your answers to jimmyfels@gmail.com. The first four people who do will get a free copy of the book! Bonus points for sharing this blog post to your Twitter, Facebook, and/or Google+.

BLURB
Who knew that a summer thunderstorm and his lost little boy would
conspire to change single dad Cayce D’Amico’s life in an instant? With
Luke missing, Cayce ventures into the woods near their house to find his
son, only to have lightning strike a tree near him, sending a branch
down on his head. When he awakens the next day in the hospital, he
discovers he has been blessed or cursed—he isn't sure which—with psychic
ability. Along with unfathomable glimpses into the lives of those
around him, he’s getting visions of a missing teenage girl.

When a second girl disappears soon after the first, Cayce realizes his
visions are leading him to their grisly fates. Cayce wants to help, but
no one believes him. The police are suspicious. The press wants to
exploit him. And the girls' parents have mixed feelings about the young
man with the "third eye."

Cayce turns to local reporter Dave Newton and, while searching for clues
to the string of disappearances and possible murders, a spark ignites
between the two. Little do they know that nearby, another couple—dark
and murderous—are plotting more crimes and wondering how to silence the
man who knows too much about them.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

You can now pre-order your copy of Dinner at Fiorello's ("Where Love is on the Menu") at Dreamspinner Press (wide release May 1)!

BLURB
Henry Appleby has an appetite for life. As a recent high school graduate and the son of a wealthy family in one of Chicago’s affluent North Shore suburbs, his life is laid out for him. Unfortunately, though, he’s being forced to follow in the footsteps of his successful attorney father instead of living his dream of being a chef. When an opportunity comes his way to work in a real kitchen the summer after graduation, at a little Italian joint called Fiorello’s, Henry jumps at the chance, putting his future in jeopardy.

Years ago, life was a plentiful buffet for Vito Carelli. But a tragic turn of events now keeps the young chef at Fiorello’s quiet and secretive, preferring to let his amazing Italian peasant cuisine do his talking. When the two cooks meet over an open flame, sparks fly. Both need a taste of something more—something real, something true—to separate the good from the bad and find the love—and the hope—that just might be their salvation.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

To enter the drawing for my horrifying story of a group of homeless street kids terrorized by a madman hellbent on cleansing the world of their kind, simply leave a comment below. I will announce a winner on April 9.

Penance was part of Dell's historic horror line, Abyss, lauded by none other than Stephen King, who called it "remarkable".

Jimmy Fels occupied his street corner. At thirteen, he already knew the poses. There was a casual defiance in the way he leaned against the storefront doorway, pelvis thrust out just enough to attract the interest of the cars cruising by more slowly than the others. He wore a faded jean jacket, Metallica T-shirt, pegged jeans, and Reebok Pumps. His ripped T-shirt deliberately exposed a nipple and a flash of smooth white stomach. The top of the T-shirt was cut away to reveal a gold rope chain, glinting in the glow of the streetlight above him.

Green eyes, wizened beyond their years, stared out of a pale face. He brought a cigarette to his full lips, lips almost too feminine and full for a boy, too ripe for anything clean. His hair, freshly washed, was still damp, looking darker than blond.

He tried not to appear too interested in the cars passing by, some slowing down to take a look at him. He knew it was bad to look too hungry. Make them think you’re doing them a favor…always keep the upper hand. Street knowledge passed on. Remember Gacy. Remember Larry Eyler and what he did to Danny Bridges, the boy who ended up chopped into pieces and thrown into a Dumpster. Get it over with as quickly as possible and keep moving. But he looked anyway, his eyes moving slowly, catching glances out of the corners, and saw the shadows of men leaning forward, their faces ghostly through car windows.

*

Dwight Morris looked at himself in his bathroom mirror. Forty-two years old, he thought, forty-two years old and you can’t even tell. The Cubs baseball cap was positioned just so, with the bill facing backward. His acid-washed Levi’s jacket hung loosely on him, with the cuffs of the sleeves turned up. Under the jacket, he wore an old grey-hooded sweatshirt unzipped just enough to show the New Kids T-shirt underneath. The mirror didn’t reveal the pegged black jeans and the BK high tops.

Dwight smiled at himself, exposing the boyish gap in his teeth. The hint of rouge on his cheeks made him look flushed; a young boy.

I must look at least twenty-five years younger.

*

Jimmy imagined their yearning.

He was cold, but didn’t want to warm himself. That would destroy the pose. The tough guy. So his arms remained at his sides, the cigarette an orange glow in one hand, held between thumb and forefinger. Too many suburban guys tucked at home with wife and kiddies, Indiana Jones on the VCR, lust for his little thirteen-year-old ass on their minds.

“Isn’t it a little cold out here for you, little boy?”

Jimmy jumped at the sound of a girl’s voice. He turned to his left and there she was. Miranda. Tonight she was wearing a black derby, a big black sweatshirt, urban camouflage pants, black leg warmers, army boots. Christ.

An amused grin played about her lips. “Shouldn’t you be home in bed, little boy? I think your mama has some cocoa and Oreos waiting.”

“Real funny, ’Ran. C’mon, gimme a fuckin’ break. I’m workin’.”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “Slow night?” She took off the black derby she wore and ran her hand through her close-cropped red hair, making it stand on end.

“It is with you standin’ there blockin’ the fuckin’ view.”

Miranda shook her head. “I can see we’re in a mood tonight.” She started away from him, hips sashaying, swinging her bag.

“Hey.” Jimmy took a last drag off his cigarette, flicked it into the gutter.

Miranda stopped and turned, cocked her head. “Thought you didn’t want to be bothered.”

Jimmy raised his hands to her. “See ya later?”

Miranda shrugged. “Depends on how it goes.”

“Right. That’s cool.”

Jimmy watched her walking away. Who would she find tonight? Would she make enough to buy herself a bottle of Cisco?

“How you doin’, son?”

The man’s voice made Jimmy take his eyes away from Miranda. He pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lit it, cupping his hand to shield the flame, before he looked up.

It was the creep. At least that’s what Jimmy called him. Some fucking preacher who lived around here. Tall, thin, pasty white with these little old-fashioned wire-rim glasses.

“Beat it. I ain’t interested.” Jimmy sucked in on the cigarette, blew the smoke toward the man.

The preacher made a gesture like a shrug, bringing his hands up, like I’m innocent.

Right. “Look, man, I’m okay. All right? See you later?”

Jimmy smirked as the preacher walked away, his hands dug deep in his pockets, head hunched down against the Chicago wind whistling down Lawrence, off the lake.

A Toyota pickup pulled over to the curb. Black with neon detailing. The truck had these squiggles of hot pink and turquoise. Jimmy pretended not to notice at first, then glanced in the direction of the truck. There was some young guy inside, wearing a baseball cap backward, leaning over and rolling down the window. Jimmy leaned over to get a better look at the face.

Wait a minute. Jimmy moved a little closer, trying to make it look like he’d just decided he wanted to cross the street or something. But he needed to get a better look.

This guy wasn’t so young. There were lines around his eyes, across his forehead. He had so much makeup on his cheeks he looked like fuckin’ Bozo the Clown..

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

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Real Men. True Love.

I draw inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although I dabble in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, my attention always returns to the power of love. I'm addicted to books--I've written and had published more than 35 novels and counting, some of which have won awards and made it to the top of the Amazon bestseller charts. I'm forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary called me: "A writer that doesn't disappoint…" I live in Palm Springs, CA with my beloved husband who tries, mostly successfully, to keep me out of trouble. When I'm not writing, I'm cooking, reading, running, or traveling.

Visit (and please follow) my Amazon author page to see all the books I have waiting for you to dive into!